


A History in 221B

by cosmogyral_mad_woman



Category: Black Mirror, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Black Mirror AU, Johnlock Challenge Gift Exchange, M/M, Prompt Fic, The Entire History of You, Valentine's Day Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 05:10:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmogyral_mad_woman/pseuds/cosmogyral_mad_woman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Johnlock/Black Mirror AU based on the episode The Entire History of You. 7 ficlets done in 221b. Written for <a href="http://evil-bones-mccoy.tumblr.com/">evil-bones-mccoy</a> for the <a href="http://johnlockchallenges.tumblr.com/">Johnlockchallenges</a> V-day Gift Exchange on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A History in 221B

**Author's Note:**

> Written for evil-bones-mccoy, I hope you like it. Happy V-day and I hope it's not too angsty. Beta'd by the always lovely quietborderline (you're a rock star, you are). I could not have done this with out the help of my very own Sherlock, Miss Kitten. So very much love. Not Brit Pick'd.

“Really? You really don't have a Grain?” John seemed torn between intrigue and confusion. Sherlock was aware that his lack of tech in this manner was akin to lacking indoor plumbing in the civilized world. He shot a glance at the other man as John tucked into his Kung Pao Chicken with relish. Their conversation began when Sherlock had told John about the twists in the game with the late cabbie, Jeff Hope.

 

“No. I find the use of a Grain to be superfluous in my case.”

 

“What about when we were chasing the cab? When you rattled off all of that information about traffic signals and construction?”

 

Sherlock gave him a considering look. Grains were standard issue amongst active duty military as well as the Police force as it was important to be able to have an accurate after action report. The ex-army doctor next to him had probably been fitted with one not long after they'd become standard issue. The concept of not having or using one would seem foreign to him.

 

“You watched me work tonight. You've seen my website. Did you ever see me stop to 'redo'?

 

John frowned in thought. A quick head shake immediately followed an eye crinkling grin which induced an unaccustomed flush of pride in Sherlock.

 

“Brilliant.”

 

 

 

 -----

 

“Stop it.”

 

Sherlock's stern voice shattered the silence of the cab and startled John out of the redo playing through his mind. He'd been going over and over what had happened, trying to find a way to have saved Soo Lin Yao. He'd been worried for Sherlock, had wanted to keep an eye on the madman, and make sure that he didn't get himself killed. But in doing so he'd left the poor woman, terrified and alone, to be murdered by her own brother. John couldn't help the guilt that crowded his mind, he felt it was justified. He should have stayed.

 

But what if Sherlock had been shot? What if the assassin had not doubled back, but stayed to deliver a corpse instead of a warning to them? John felt torn between wanting to save the innocent and protect his friend. And Sherlock was his friend, no matter what John had said to that ass, Wilkes. He'd regretted that, too, seeing the spasm of emotion cross Sherlock's face at his correction.

 

“I said, stop it.” Sherlock's voice was sharp with irritation. “Berating yourself will not change the outcome of tonight's misadventure. I need you to focus. We can bring Zhi Zhu to justice if we crack the cipher.”

 

John met his eyes. “We need their books.”

 

 

 

\-----

 

“Are you sure that you don't want me to play the redo for you?” John's voice was laced with puzzlement, his hand still resting on the pull string to the projection screen. Sherlock flicked his gaze over him before letting his eyes drift closed. He was sat on his chair, fingers steepled on top of his knees which provided an ideal rest for his chin.

 

“I am. You can describe it to me reasonably well. Tell me what you recovered from the grain.”

 

“Well, he called her defective, but she had perfect hearing.” John settled into his chair and fiddled with his remote.

 

“His voice is soft. Irish brogue. He's having a lot of fun with it, too, the bastard. The glee in his voice, God. He's a proper nutter.” Emotion colored his words, leaving behind a bright palate of anger. It's range broadened to include empathy and compassion as he continued to lay out details for Sherlock to process. Sherlock's fore mind raced towards the solution, placing the data in the grander scheme of the enigma. Subconsciously, he couldn't help but notice his growing appreciation for John's emotional spectrum. He knew of course, that John cared about the victims, but he hadn't realized how personal it'd become to him. At least they had saved the boy.

 

 

 

\-----

 

57\. 57 god damned texts. The flare of jealousy in his chest was familiar, though hated. He'd tried, desperately, to ignore Sherlock's relationship with that woman. He'd gone through girlfriends like the British nation went through tea, losing each from a distinct lack of interest and attention. He felt bad each time, but couldn't pull himself away from his new found obsession. Honestly, the worst part was that he wasn't sure who, exactly, he was envious of. Was he begrudging Sherlock the attentions of Miss Adler, or her for Sherlock's?

 

He really didn't want to focus on it either way, but it consumed his waking thoughts, waning until he heard yet another lustful moan issue from Sherlock's mobile. Each time, they'd settle back into their usual routines, John just finding his footing again, and then the damnable woman would send another, ripping Sherlock from his surroundings, regardless of his level of absorption. John had repeatedly played the redo of their one and only meeting, trying to read the clues in both of their expressions and body language. He'd tried to analyze the emotions that each brought about in himself, but he could not shake the feelings of possessiveness or apprehension when he watched Sherlock meet her gaze.

 

And neither could he squash the jolts of jealousy which every subsequent text brought.

 

 

 

\-----

 

The train back from Dartmoor passed in companionable silence between the detective and the doctor, each enveloped in his own thoughts. Sherlock was turning over the deal that he had made with Mycroft to regain access into Baskerville. It was a risky agreement, letting Moriarty know so much about his history, but it had been necessary and could possibly be useful in the future. The thought of consequences had him turning his head from the window pane to take in his adjacent counterpart caught in the throws of a redo.

 

As with most of the population, he had no idea how his countenance betrayed his actions. Most likely, he was replaying the experiment at the base. Between the remainder of the drug in their systems and, what John might call a 'traumatic' experience in the lab, the stress of the redo was painted into his features. His face was deeply lined with his blank scowl, his respiration increased. Sherlock watched as his hands slowly clenched. A shade of emotion colored his awareness with flashes of uncertainty. What was that? He mentally poked at the wisp, trying to decipher it's components.

 

Was that guilt? Was he feeling guilt? He had not felt even a modicum of that particular sentiment nor any other when he'd experimented on John in the past. How bothersome.

 

 

 

 -----

 

He watched Sherlock's retreating form as the dark of London took him into its embrace. John felt bereft, cut adrift on the sea of his fears. He knew Sherlock, _knew_ him. He knew deeply, viscerally, that there was no way that Sherlock could have lied about everything, but he had to admit that the lie was compelling. He could see where the others had been taken in. He could see where that vicious kernel had planted itself, because it tried desperately to find fertile soil in John, himself. But he beat down that insidious seed rendering it to dust in his mind's eye. He had no other possible recourse.

 

He turned towards the Diogenes and the only other living being that knew Sherlock as well as or better than him. Who else could have betrayed his friend so heinously? He had to know why Mycroft had done it. He needed to understand. Maybe in doing so he could find a way to clear his own head, give himself some pointed direction. As he strode down the back streets and alleys of the city, he tried to find a path through the tangle of his thoughts. He trusted Sherlock with his life. But the doubt was so infectious, so refined.

 

“God, I want to believe in Sherlock Holmes. I do believe.”

 

 

 

 -----

 

He hated the redo with every fiber of his being. He could see that soft cupid's bow tracing his skin, hear the susurrus of sheets as they twisted around their forms in the dark. But he could not feel the caress of Sherlock's long fingers as they slid along his spine, nor taste the sweat that he had licked off of his lover's shoulder before he sank his teeth into it. He had once questioned Sherlock about his lack of a grain as they lay spent in the nest of sheets and pillows.

 

“It holds incomplete data, only audio and visual. When I remember, I can utilize all of my senses; I feel and taste and smell. It provides me with all of the facts, regardless of the situation. With a grain, I'd be denied that.” He had drawn complex molecules along John's ribs with his fingertips as he spoke. “I will remember every detail and I will never forget this.”

 

The memory of those words etched pain along John's heart. Sherlock was wrong about one thing. John could still feel the loss of the other man. That feeling would always bleed through. He rested his fingertips along the curved edge of the grave stone, his head bowing under the pain.

 

Please.

 

“Don't be dead. Just don't be.”


End file.
